


Slut

by hellkitty



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Blindfolds, Come Marking, Cuckolding, Dildos, Exhibitionism, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Female Ejaculation, Forced Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Jealousy, M/M, Masturbation, Multi, Restraints, Size Kink, Sounding, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:03:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2409395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh. My. God. Becky. Look at those tags.  </p><p>Yeah, don't mind me, just exorcising (or exercising) some demons. The ending got a little...personal.  Hope it doesn't ruin the smut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slut

 

The first day, Deadlock had simply thought he was imagining it, the smell of sex, the ozone tang of overload, clinging to the jet.  It was just a symptom, he thought, of his repaired olfactory sensors, a little glitch, a lack of calibration. A place empty of the reek of pulse-pistol fire.

Still, it made it hard to sleep next to him, and Deadlock had scooted to the far side of the berth, knowing it wouldn’t help, knowing his dreams would be filled with the idea of it, his spike stinging with the stirrings of want. Like some trick or torment.

The second time, Wing had apologetically locked Deadlock into his apartment, promising to be back soon, but that Deadlock shouldn’t wait up for him just in case (all solicitous like that, like he actually gave a scrap, Deadlock had snorted), before lifting off from the balcony, his nacelles firing, skimming the air.

Deadlock watched where he’d flown, lazyloopy spirals, another balcony, not far, with a broad bay, broad enough that, as the false-night filled the underground city, Deadlock could see--way more than he wanted to--what was going on inside, in a flood of warm, bright light.  

And what was going on was...yeah, he wasn’t going to get any recharge tonight either. Wing, held standing by a mech behind him, whose long arms hooked under the jet’s arms, his hips moving against Wing in a way that told anyone watching (Deadlock) that he was taking Wing’s valve, alternating between a series of staccato, fast, shallow thrusts, his skirting panels rattling, and long, slow waves of motion.

And in front of Wing another mech, kneeling, mouth on Wing’s spike, face blissful in profile as the thrusting hips worked the spike into his eager, willing mouth.  Fast...then slow, fast, then slow, the three of them edging toward the overload, the kneeling mech’s hand working at his own spike.  

The kneeler overloaded first, a shudder, and a suck, and Deadlock could see the silvery spurt of transfluid shoot from his spike, painting the underside, and Deadlock could imagine the hot fluid coating the larger mech’s spike as it moved--pounding then gliding--in Wing’s valve, building, inexorably toward his own release.

He couldn’t bear to watch, but he couldn’t turn away, his optics refusing to leave until he’d seen the way Wing’s body arched, his mouth stretched in a cry that was soundless from over here, optics gold and glowing like suns, the very figure of ecstasy.

He’d had to run into the washrack, then, or rather, the ungainly waddle of a mech so painfully aroused, his spike thick and engorged, scraping against his own equipment cover, to pump his own spike, his whole body shuddering as he overloaded, long, hard bursts of fluid that reminded him of the kneeling mech’s, staining the wall with his frustrated desire.

When Wing came back, later, almost a cycle later, Deadlock had already claimed a corner of the berth, curled into a hard, unwelcoming, suffering ball.

***

Wing had sent him on an errand, a small thing, and he knew he’d be checked on.  It was a test--how could it not be?  He knew the time wasn’t right to make an escape. He needed to earn their trust, to play them before he could betray them, make his move.  He’d come back early, even, almost snickering at the idea as he skipped up the steps: Oh look what a good little mech I am, coming straight home, just like I have no thought at all of leaving this place. Be fooled, be convinced.

He was still grinning at his own cleverness when the rich, posh door  slid aside, almost soundless, unlike the heavy rumble of doors on Decepticon warships. Or at least unheard, over the slide and moan inside.  

Wing, the sound was Wing’s voice, soft, pleasurable mewls, as he straddled another mech’s face.  Deadlock could hear the wet sounds of it--glossa against mesh, the sounds of the lip plates coming together, sucking at a little edge of lining, and the little squeaks and hip twitches, that set the jet's skirting panels dancing, had to be when the mech hit the anterior node, sending shocks of pleasure through Wing’s frame.  

The flightpanels were half extended, as if for balance, and they blocked his view, but he could see the limp spike of the other mech, sated, quiescent, in a little slipped pool of silver, lying on his belly, as though he’d taken Wing, spilled inside him, and was now….

And Wing was enjoying it, every minute, not the least self-conscious, as his hands came up, clutching near his shoulders, hips rolling over the other mech’s mouth, his probing glossa.

It wasn’t a mech from the last time--they had both been flight modes, this  one clearly had grounder hovermods on the wrists which wrapped around Wing’s waist, keeping him close and down.  Deadlock heard a throaty laugh from him, and then the squeak of pleasure rose to a louder sound, a wail of lust. He could imagine the other mech’s face, optics drinking in the sight of Wing’s body, writhing and twisting, his whole frame shuddering with delight and anticipation and want, hanging on the tiniest flick of his glossa.  

He couldn’t stay. He slipped outside the door, which hadn’t closed behind him, sitting on the steps outside the quarters until the other mech had left, trotting past him, looking, to Deadlock’s gaze, sated and smug, nearly dancing down the steps.  Deadlock could smell the sex on him, could swear he could smell the sweet salt of Wing’s fluids.  

He pushed up--’late’ by now,--and flopped sullenly back into the apartment, which Wing was tidying, humming happily as he rearranged some fabrics on the berth, looking up, smiling at Deadlock.

As though he knew he was torturing me, Deadlock thought. As though this was some kind of punishment.  One the jet clearly enjoyed.  

"You're back!" Wing said, cheerily. And Deadlock felt caught, flatfooted. Did he admit he'd seen? Did he admit he was onto this little stunt, this stupid trick? Did he say it just to prove that it wasn't working on him, that he didn't care?

He knew he wasn't that good a liar.

"Of course I am," he said, instead, flat, hot bitter words, like globs of lead, that got a raised, elegant arch of Wing's supraorbital ridge, but nothing more.

***

His dreams were haunted: Wing with...everyone. Wing wanton and open, letting anyone take him, anyone use him. A whore, but not a whore, because he didn't get paid for it. He just wanted it, to be taken, used, filled.  A toy for anyone, it seemed.

Anyone except Deadlock. Who had to lie by him, night after night, in an aching chastity. The filthy Decepticon was off limits, somehow, not even worthy to join the long line of mechs who stuffed Wing, spiked him, brought him to a writhing overload.  

I should have said something, Deadlock thought, sourly, half-fogged with sleep. I should have had it out with him right there. Right here, on this berth, with someone else, and Deadlock could swear he could feel the outline of that other grounder's frame, the imprint of it where he'd lain, sucking and licking at Wing's eager, sluttish valve.  I should have said something. Not been a coward.  

He flung himself awake, shredding the last fuzz of recharge, words bubbling, boring in his vocalizer.

Wing was gone.

It wasn't even close to daybreak, and Wing was gone, and Deadlock was left with the harsh buzz of angry words, going rancid at the thought that Wing was out, again, with someone else.

Deadlock was quick to anger, but slow to cool, the type who would, in fact, sit out on the balcony, in the darkness, and wait. Wait until light stirred the daylamps of Crystal City, humming on with a soft colorless dawn, until he caught the lights glinting off the high gloss of white and red, as the jet made his way home.  

Wing was smiling, as he transformed, touching down lightly on the parapet, the dreamy kind of smile that had not a fraggin' thing to do with Deadlock, standing, arms folded, braced for confrontation, his scowl the flipped image of Wing's contented curve.

"You're up early," Wing sad--practically sang. Like he'd done nothing wrong.

Rage boiled in Deadlock's brain module, scalding and red.  "Where've you been?" Though he knew enough of the answer already: he could see two, three long lascivious lines of transfluid, silver on white, smearing down the jet's inner thighs.  

"Me?" Wing tilted his head, that alien, exotic, elegant mannerism of his. "It is Axe's naming day. I thought I'd wake him up."

Deadlock felt nauseous, his optics skimming and then skipping off, the tell-tale lines of transfluid.  Waking Axe up: he didn’t need to see it, he already had too much of a picture in his mind, Wing, straddling the larger mech, riding his spike, slowly at first, pulling Axe gently, pleasurably, from the depths of recharge.  That spike--Deadlock knew how big a spike a mech of Axe’s size would have--massive, cramming into Wing’s valve, tight, barely fitting, spreading the lining, straining the calipers, and Wing rolling on the waves of ecstasy, as Axe overloaded, transfluid pumping up the spike, hot and high-pressure, slamming against the valve’s ceiling node, so hard that it leaked out of the valve, even around the thick spike, drawing long lines of silver down Wing’s trembling thighs.

His interface array throbbed, angry and aroused, a pulse tattoo against his brain module wanting but frustrated. Not good enough.  He’ll frag everyone else, but not you. Not good enough, not worth enough.  You’re right here, a hand’s reach away, and he won’t even…

“Drift?” The warm light in Wing’s optics looked...Deadlock didn’t know. Condescending, somehow, like he felt sorry for Deadlock, the stupid the savage the not good enough. It ignited Deadlock’s desire, turning it into fury, and he whirled, fist finding the wall, hard enough that his knuckles cracked, sending a shock of welcome pain through him, steadying him with its familiarity. He knew this pain. He could handle this pain. It was all the rest of it that was too much.  

And it was probably petty, the way he stormed in, past Wing’s shocked face, mouth opened in a ‘o’ (an ‘o’ that had probably wrapped around how many spikes? he thought) and locked himself in the washrack, running the cleanser on as cold as it could go, sitting shivering in the spray, ignoring the soft tap on the door outside, waiting until even he couldn’t stand the misery of the cold anymore, and his throbbing spike and valve had subsided to a dull, numb ache, and his hand had clotted with autorepair nanobots, and the room beyond was thick with silence.

Wing was gone--of course, he’d made his point, flaunting his sex in Deadlock’s face--and the rag in the small disposal bin, streaked with the sweet reek of transfluid, seemed to taunt him, even so.

***

Wing returned, later, carrying a bundle that smelled rich and luxurious.  Deadlock was sitting, moodily, on the floor, picking at the crust on his broken knuckles. He was bored.  Sure, Wing had shown him all the entertainment stuff in his quarters: a holovid player, a library of vids, music, all of that, but he didn’t want to be entertained. He didn’t want anything of Wing’s, right now. It was bad enough that the floor he was sitting on was Wing’s. But at least it wasn’t the berth.  

Wing crouched down in front of him, as though he was approaching a wild thing, holding out the bundle. “I brought you something to eat.”  

“Not hungry.” He was hungry, but lying about that had become second nature to him, back in the gutters.  Besides, he’d been hungrier.  

Wing looked at a loss for a moment. Oh, what’s the matter, Deadlock thought, mouth curling in a sneer. Not used to having your stupid little gestures rebuffed? I don’t want your pity. Or your food. Or any of this.  

“You should get that looked at,” Wing said, finally, and it took a few kliks before Deadlock realized he was talking about his hand.

Deadlock shrugged. “It’ll be fine.” He flexed the hand into a fist, just for the experience of watching the nanobot scab split open with a stretching, breaking kind of pain.  

“Are you sure?”

He looked up, meeting the golden optics with his new, sullen blue ones. “I’ve been hurt worse,” he said, flatly.  The only thing he had over Wing was his life outside. That was who he was. This? This was just...temporary. Not who he was.  He needed to remind Wing of that. He needed to remind himself of it.

“I know,” Wing said, but he sounded a little uncertain. “Do you want to talk?”

“No.” Truth enough under that.

Wing looked a little startled, before he settled down on the floor by Drift, opening the packet. Like he’d had his plan, how it was supposed to go, and he was going to forge on ahead with it. As if he couldn’t imagine things just NOT going his way.

Deadlock took a bitter satisfaction in the idea that he was the first in that, at least.

***

Of course Wing left that night. Deadlock would admit, at least to himself, he’d certainly done his best to make the jet miserable enough here.  Even he didn’t blame him for leaving.

Much.  

But Deadlock hadn’t made himself miserable enough, yet, so he found himself searching Wing’s apartment.  What? He’d been a thief, and he owed Wing no privacy.  It didn’t take long to find it, though,as if Wing wanted it to be found: a long box, decorative, pretty, filled with toys.  

Things Deadlock had never seen: glass rings, that were supposed to fit over the spike, somehow, bottles of lubricants, warming and cooling and both, a little valve rim pod with a remote relay. Restraints, wrist and ankle and something he could only figure was for wings.  Beads on strings.  And the dildos, of a half dozen sizes, some small and hooked, some with bulges near the base, some soft and yielding. One, at least, the size of a mech like Axe’s, a spike toy made for stuffing, filling, with a suction cup at the bottom.  

Yeah, he’d probably been right how it went with Axe, he thought, bitterly.

Right. That was enough, he thought, dropping the lid shut on the box. He needed air, the cool dark air of the city around him, leeching the heat from his frame.

He didn’t realize till he was out on the balcony that he was still holding the Axe-sized dildo.

Should throw it, he thought, and a bubble of hysterical laughter hit his vocalizer: he’d throw the thing, fling it away in a pettish pique, and it would fall down the levels of the city, landing, with his luck, on someone’s head.  Maybe, if he had any skill, suction cup down so it would stick to their helm, waggling and wobbling and obscene.

It was the closest to laughing he’d come in years, but the laugh cut off as he looked across the way, looking down. A different room this time, different mechs, but there, framed in the big balcony window...was Wing.

Wing, blindfolded, kneeling, hands tied in front of him, his wings spread and held by...yeah Deadlock had been right about what that thing had been for. It held Wing’s flightpanels extended, taut, behind him, outstretched and exposed.  And around Wing, a circle of other mechs, talking--he could see their mouths moving--and stepping forward, once and again, to touch the jet--tweak his flightpanels, pinch the tip of his exposed spike.  Deadlock could see the gloss of lubricant from here, the betraying leak of Wing’s desire. He was tied, helpless, exposed..and turned on.  

One of the mechs stepped around, releasing his own spike, waving it before Wing’s face. He must have said something, must have joked or dared Wing, because Wing’s head moved, mouth open, trying for it.  

A bustle of laughter Deadlock could swear he heard from over here as the mech slapped the spike against Wing’s cheek, teasing, taunting, leaving a wet smear of lubricant, before slipping it into Wing’s mouth. Wing settled back on his knees, moving slowly up and down the spike’s shaft.  

Deadlock felt his own spike scrape its equipment cover, watching, imagining those long, slow suckles on his own spike. And before he knew it, his hand was moving over his spike, smeared with lubricant.  

He wasn’t the only one, though--across the way, others had done the same, watching Wing’s spikejob, the way the jet slid his mouth all the way down, kissing the baseplate, so that Deadlock knew the spike’s head was against the back of the jet’s throat, and then off, lip plates pulled tight around the shaft, sucking at the head.  

Some order or command, and Wing moved his own hands down to his spike, clumsily, tied at the wrists and in each other’s way, he somehow found a way to grab his own spike, until one of the others pulled his hands off, sliding...something on his spike. No, in his spike, a long slender reed like thing, slipped down the channel, as Wing writhed and trembled on his knees, hips twitching as though trying to overload.  

He shouldn’t be watching. This was not his business, and Wing was a damn whore, and Deadlock could see a puddle of lubricant dripping from the jet’s exposed valve, drip, drip, drip onto the floor, begging to be taken, begging to be humiliated more.  

His own valve throbbed, and he found himself--what the frag did it even matter, anyway--sliding the dildo toy into it, suctioned to the balcony floor.  He felt a perverse satisfaction about using Wing’s toy, about pleasuring himself using Wing’s things, like everyone else was using Wing. He was getting off watching him, just like they were. Wing could keep himself from him, give his valve, his mouth, to everyone but Deadlock, but he could still get this much, he thought. He felt mean, but it didn’t matter. It was beyond mattering as he lowered himself onto the toy, feeling the yielding substance push into his valve, spreading it wide open. He eased his way onto it, thighs spreading on the ground, until it bumped his ceiling node.  It filled him, so big and thick that he felt it pushing against his internals, against the transfluid tank, building pressure where he...really didn’t need any help.

He started rocking on it, thinking of Wing and Axe and how that might have been, hearing the wet, sloppy ‘sprip’ sound each time he sank back down onto it, his calipers a frenzy of motion, the strange substance building friction impossibly fast.

He overloaded, from his valve, long and hard, and he bit down a cry, feeling fluid release, wash down over his thighs. He’d always been like that with big spikes, gushing and wet when he overloaded, calipers squeezing like mad, trying to milk out transfluid that...wasn’t going to come from a toy.  

His spike moved in his hand, again, and he pinched its head every time Wing took the spike in his mouth deep into his throat, pinch, stroke, pinch stroke, then a few, to match Wing, long, shallower strokes.  Mechs around Wing and the mech who was taking him kissed, tangled some on the floor, some still watching, eager, as though waiting their turn, hands pumping at spikes, more than one taking each other, hiking up legs, bending over.

So this was how rich mechs did it, Deadlock thought, and he caught himself riding the toy again, wanting more, wanting to overload all of this out of him, every drop of lubricant and fluid, as though exorcising a demon.  Named Wing.  

He didn’t stop himself: he rode the toy harder, the plump head jamming again and again at his ceiling node. He changed his angle, so that it pushed against his transfluid tank, his fist working over his spike until he couldn’t stand anymore, and the tank began spurting out transfluid, long, silver sprays against the balcony, droplets, as they scattered, glinting and shimmering in the night air.  

More. He needed more, and besides, Wing was still there, sucking the spike, the rod they’d slid in his spike bobbling, frantic and ridiculous looking, keeping the jet from overloading, no matter how hard he worked his own spike.  Deadlock kept bouncing on the toy, another shuddering wash of valve-overload overtaking him, his valve dripping, seeping the watery blue of lubricant, his spike sheened faintly with silver from the transfluid smearing over his spike as he kept working it. He thought about going back inside, getting another toy, but he didn’t want to move, other than to keep his ride on the suctioned toy.  

Inside, over there, the mech grabbed Wing’s audial flares, those long, scalloped panels, like handles, and braced Wing with them, his own hips taking over from Wing’s bobbing. He thrust himself in slow, then fast, faster, picking up speed, pounding into the jet’s mouth, the nasal of Wing’s helm ringing against his belly.

Wing’s hands left his spike, needing the floor for balance, rocked forward as the other mech took his mouth roughly.  

Deadlock could see it coming, in the other’s body, three thrust, two, one, and then he jolted forward, straining to push himself far into Wing’s throat, hips juddering as his transfluid tank pumped its load into the jet’s throat, bobbling fast, desperate to swallow. One mech, then another, driven over the edge by watching, stepped up, finishing off their spikes with a few quick strokes, letting their fluid spray in long, sticky, silver strands over the outstretched trembling wings.  

The last thing Deadlock saw, his hand and the toy driving him into a hard oblivion, was the glass rod pushing out of Wing’s spike, the jet overloading, spilling his own fluid, pushed beyond restraint at their degradation.  

***

Deadlock staggered inside, some time later. They were probably still going at it--no one had used the jet’s valve as far as he’d seen. He didn’t want to look. He felt vaguely ill, his spike and valve raw and sore from misuse. He winced, as he lifted himself off the toy, as the thick head popped free from his overload-tensed valve with a comical wet ‘pop’. He staggered to his feet, turning toward the door. He thought about cleaning up, about the puddle around the toy, the telltale spray of transfluid on the balcony walls...but he didn’t care.  He just wanted to get inside. Get inside, away from this rich decadence...and remember who and what he was.

***

Deadlock winced, half asleep, his mind tangled in memories. Old memories, the kind that didn’t dull from age but grow sharper, like vinegar.  Memories of the gutters, of his equipment so badly used it hurt to have air on them.

It wasn’t air, this time, but a rag, the texture careful and soft, the liquid cool, swiping around the edge of his sore valve, the spike worked so hard its enamel had fresh scratches.  He groaned, optics onlining warily, trying to--and then trying NOT to--remember what happened.  

Wing knelt before him, between his parted thighs, gently swabbing at his equipment, lit by the daylight from the balcony door. Deadlock felt a crash of shame--the toy, still suctioned to the floor, the puddle of his gushed fluids.  Yeah, he wasn’t going to be able to talk his way out of this one.  

He was still scraping for something to say, as Wing turned, wringing out the cloth, and then stroking it carefully around the valve’s rim, then up the shaft of his spike.  Their optics met, just for a klik, Deadlock dropping his, feeling his whole body heat with a kind of shame, even as his spike stirred under the touch, pushing up eagerly into Wing’s hand.  

Wing said nothing, moving forward, and then their mouths met in a kiss, and he could feel the jet’s thigh sliding over his hip, the valve resting, inviting, over his spike.  He could taste transfluid in the kiss, the mech Wing had swallowed. At least that one. Who knew how many more had pumped their fluid into his willing throat, ordering him to swallow, or pulling out, spurted their lust on his face?

But it somehow didn’t matter, as his spike surged upward, finding the valve, pushing in, nosing in like something not entirely sure it was welcome. The calipers rippled, coaxing him harder, more erect, and he found himself, on the floor, pushing up slowly into the jet’s body.  Who knew how many other spikes had filled that valve, some as big as Axe’s, swollen like the toy, spreading Wing’s mesh taut and wide, some smaller, maybe with the glass rings around their shafts, taking Wing from behind, or being ridden, or maybe even two at once, stretching and straining together, finding that awkward rhythm, or...any of fifty different ways. Who knew how many other mechs had finished inside him, tanks pumping until empty, till his valve was scalded, dripping and coated with silver. One after another, even, Deadlock thought, taking him through each other’s fluids.

Like he was, probably. He could feel the slickness, more than just lubricant, knew his spike was thrusting through the lust of other mechs. It was low and vulgar and disgusting and he should be nauseated by it, but he wasn’t. He was a Decepticon, they expected no better of him.

And Wing was here, now; his, now; if only for a few moments, if only for as long as he could keep the jet aroused, interested, as long as he could hold him off the brink of overload.

“I knew,” Wing whispered. “I knew you were watching. I wanted you to watch.”  The voice was sweet, sensual, sweet poison poured in Deadlock’s audio.  “And this,” the jet added, purring, rocking his hips into Deadlock’s slow thrusts, as if already impatient, already wanting to overload, “I wanted even more.”  

Deadlock felt it rise in him, as his hand moved to Wing's spike, tugging it upward, already wanting to feel the spill of Wing's fluid on his belly. He was whipped by jealousy, the desire, the need, to mark Wing like all the others, to take him and own him and feel the ecstatic trembling, to mark and be marked by him, as if that would be enough.

**Author's Note:**

> The headcanon is that jets, in general, have high sex drives, and those who can't fly, well, they have to have some way to work off the extra energy. Yeah, it's flimsy. But porn.
> 
> In reality, Deadlock would have to realize, have to conclude, at some point, that he will never be enough for Wing, and have to decide if taking a rare crumb of his attention was enough, if he was content to be a beggar at the feast because at least he’s not entirely starving. But this is fantasy. I can stop it before he slides over that brink.


End file.
